


A Case of You

by lilylashes



Series: A Case of You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilylashes/pseuds/lilylashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first glance, John Watson is an ordinary man, bordering on pathetic.</p><p>After a second look, Sherlock Holmes deduces that he might actually be his most interesting case yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of You

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, a songfic, really?!
> 
> Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.
> 
> The lyrics I used here are a mix of the original ones, and then somewhere, out in the world, there is a version that includes the phrase 'silly as a northern fish'... I had a copy of it when I was fifteen, and these are actually the lyrics I first learned to this song. Either way, I think they fit really nicely, and I hope you enjoy this bit of fluff. Everything else I've written (ever) has been angst-y and dealing with any and all things trigger-y, so I just wanted to see if I am capable of writing something pleasant. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> xx  
> lilylashes

_Just before our ship got lost, you said_  
 _‘I am as constant as the Northern Star’_  
 _‘You’re silly as a northern fish’ says I_  
 _‘If you want me, I’ll be in the bar’_

               John Watson was an ordinary man, nothing extra about it. He was not the brightest, the strongest, the wittiest, the most attractive or the most fit. He wasn’t even the best doctor that Sherlock had ever met in his many years working with St. Bart’s. John Watson was plain, boring, and altogether unimportant. Even the state of his jumper screamed of mediocrity – a bland, neutral beige, clearly having seen better days, over-washed, stretched out around the neck and sleeves as though the man was used to pulling at it nervously. He entered the room with a limp and awkward comment about ‘back in his day.’ He was unexceptional, bordering on pathetic.

               Still, there was something there that enticed Sherlock, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. (Yet.) Within seconds, he was able to tell that the limp was put on, and that the man before him was an invalided Army doctor. After brief observations of his mobile, he got an idea of what the man’s family life (or lack thereof) was like.

               It may or may not have been from sheer necessity that Sherlock decided to give him a chance, though not before making sure to unsettle him with verbalising his observations, and making a comment about his riding crop. He swept from the room with a flourish, hiding his grin as the Army doctor stared at him, unaware that his mouth was hanging open.

~~~~~

_On the back of a cartoon coaster pad_  
 _In the blue TV screen light_  
 _I drew a map of Canada_  
 _(Oh, Canada!)_  
 _With your face sketched on it twice_

Weeks went by, and Sherlock was beginning to believe that he had underestimated the quiet little man who co-habitated 221B Baker Street with him. The first clue had been the mysterious disappearance of John’s old Army injury, the second when he had so vehemently (albeit incorrectly) flown in the face of the accusatory Yarders in reference to the false drugs bust, the third when he had tracked Sherlock’s location with the GPS on Jennifer Wilson’s mobile, the fourth when he had shot the cabbie through the window. Sherlock was now up to fifty-seven clues that perhaps John Watson was not so ordinary after all.

~~~~~

_Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine_  
 _You taste so bitter and so sweet_  
 _Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling_  
 _And I would still be on my feet_  
 _I would still be on my feet._

               It was on day seventy-six and clue three hundred forty-two that Sherlock decided he had enough evidence to draw a conclusion, and the conclusion bothered him more than any number of unsolved serial murders ever had.

               His hypothesis… Had been _wrong_.

               There was nothing even remotely ordinary about Dr. John Watson. Nothing boring, nothing unremarkable, and definitely nothing pathetic. Dr. John Watson was, by far, one of the most surprising men Sherlock had ever met. Where he had once seen apathy, he now saw vigour. Where there had once been self-pity, he now saw self-assuredness. Where he had once seen disapproval, bordering on dislike, he now saw… Something more. Sherlock seemed unable to decide if his initial observations had been incorrect (unlikely), or if adventure, danger, and/or Sherlock’s company had triggered these changes in John (even more unlikely that it was the company, he told himself.)

Dr. John Watson was, in fact, shaping up to be Sherlock’s most curious case of all.

~~~~~  
 _Oh, I am a lonely painter – I live in a box of paints_  
 _I’m frightened by the devil,_  
 _But I’m scared to death of saints_

               On day one hundred fourteen, Sherlock felt something even stranger than being incorrect.

               He felt a _flutter_.

               He hated the flowery, romantic sound of the word, but there was no denying that that’s what it was. It was something akin to the feeling wings behind his breastbone that caused his breath to hitch ever so slightly. John, he was sure, did not notice, partly because John was an idiot (though admittedly less of an idiot than most other idiots Sherlock encountered), and partly because a vest full of Semtex was enough to distract anyone. When the red laser light appeared across John’s heart, Sherlock felt a curious stabbing sensation in his own chest. Having been so detached from any sort of emotion for so long, it took him a moment to place it.

               Fear. He, Sherlock Holmes, the man who excelled at martial arts, swordplay, who had mastered any firearm he’d ever come in contact with, and who could effectively ignore any bodily discomfort without so much as a grimace, was _afraid_.

               When Moriarty stepped from the shadows and made his presence known, Sherlock did his best to conceal his unpleasant realisation. Truthfully, he wasn’t accustomed to feeling so human. Moriarty taunted him, but it was nothing, meant nothing, not while that accursed red light still hovered over John’s beating heart. Sherlock offered Moriarty the zip drive with the missile plans that his brother was so desperate to recover, in hopes of placating him, but to no avail. Moriarty snorted and casually tossed aside the information that men had died for to protect.

               What happened next was both monumentally unexpected and stupid. With Moriarty’s back to him, John launched himself onto the consulting criminal and yelled for Sherlock to run. Of course Sherlock would never run, never leave John. This was yet another example of John being an idiot, and Sherlock was about to tell him so. However, when John’s gaze drew up to Sherlock’s, the words died in his throat. They locked eyes for only the briefest of moments, but with one look it seemed as though John was trying to tell him something, tell him everything. _I’m not afraid_ , he seemed to be saying, _please. Go_.

               Sherlock didn’t have the chance to tell him that it was, selfishly, not John’s fear that kept him rooted to the spot, but his own, because almost as quickly as John had grabbed onto Moriarty, he released him. Suddenly there was fear in the doctor’s eyes, and with a sigh, Sherlock realised that the sniper had redirected his sights to himself. Well, good. Let them stay there.

This all transpired to the great amusement of Moriarty. He continued to tease Sherlock, to which Sherlock responded sarcastically until Moriarty threatened to burn out his heart. Even as the detective stated that he possessed no such organ, his eyes automatically flicked upwards to John’s face, and this did not go unnoticed by Moriarty. He smirked, but then chose to retreat, leaving the coolest of threats lingering in his wake.

Sherlock wasted no time ripping the explosives from John, nearly taking half his clothes with it. He flung it as far from them as he could, and desperately tried to assure both himself and John that they were alright. John, for his part, seemed shaken, but not traumatised, and in fact, the only time he had seemed afraid at all was when it had been Sherlock’s life and not his own that was in danger.

 _Curiouser and curiouser_ , Sherlock thought, wryly, as he and John caught their breath, safe, at least for the moment.

~~~~~  
 _I remember that time you told me,_  
 _You said ‘love is touching souls’_  
 _Surely you touched mine, ‘cause part of you pours out of me_  
 _In black and red designs_

               Sherlock had long since stopped counting the days it had been since John Watson had entered his life. In fact, it seemed as though the days _before_ John Watson entered his life were the ones that needed counting. Some twelve thousand odd days before the appearance of John Watson had passed, each insignificant in its own way, but the two- or three- or five- hundred days since each rang with something new, something exciting. The day Sherlock discovered John’s allergy to soy. The day Sherlock learned of John’s affinity towards otters. The day Sherlock saw John’s Army wound for the first time. Each day was categorised and filed away safely on the detective’s hard drive, though he made sure to never let John know how closely he was paying attention.

               On one very significant day, John had watched Sherlock play his violin for hours. The notes wrought forth from the instrument were so haunting and heartbreaking that the doctor found himself inconspicuously wiping a stay tear from his eye as he watched Sherlock make yet another note on the sheet of music before him. It was an original piece, he gathered, as Sherlock played the same few notes over and over, making the slightest changes, then playing them again. Over and over, like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood, Sherlock shaped his sad melody, and over and over John felt that painful tightness in his chest.

               Finally, when he could take the suffocating sorrow no longer, John was forced to speak. Softly at first, but then more forcefully he told Sherlock that he was sorry, so sorry for his grief; that he lamented the fact that the man was in such pain and that he wished there was something he could do to ease it. Awkwardly, he offered his condolences and assurances of support whenever needed, though he knew the detective would never ask for it. Once or twice he even bandied about a cliché about how Irene Adler would have wanted Sherlock to move on and keep living, despite her untimely demise. And quietly, he told Sherlock that love was not something to keep locked away, that it was natural and beautiful, and meant that he had finally made a connection with another person, however brief.

               Throughout all this, Sherlock kept his back to John, his violin still resting on his chin. He stared out the window, the echo of John’s words ringing in the silence that followed. If he allowed himself such nonsense, he might have wept as well.

               It wasn’t for Irene that he wrote his song of loss and yearning, but for the man who had just so ineloquently explained to the detective for the first time what it meant to love.

~~~~~  
 _I met a woman, she had a mouth like yours_  
 _She knew your life_  
 _She knew your devils and your deeds_  
 _And she said ‘go to him, stay with him if you can_  
 _But be prepared to bleed.’_

               Some time after that, Sherlock found himself in the difficult and clumsy position of having to explain himself. For once, the stony masquerade of aloofness and arrogance had gone too far, and he had hurt the one person he cared about. He never thought (or maybe never cared) that by acting so obstinately independent that he might actually upset John, but when he spat out the words of not having friends, he could see the pain in the other man’s eyes before he got up slowly and walked out of the pub. For the first time, Sherlock considered going after him, chasing him down, apologising, but that would never do, so he sat there, praying John would return to him. He didn’t. Sherlock sat there all night, perfectly still, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, but no one came.

               The next morning, Sherlock did something he’d never done before. He swallowed his pride, and set off to find John... To find his friend. When he finally caught up with him and admitted (though desperately trying to maintain his usual level of stoicism) that he did not misspeak – he did not have _friends_ , plural, he had one _friend_ , Dr. John Watson. John did not seem impressed by this information, so (highly uncomfortable) Sherlock delved deeper, and started to tell the doctor how wonderful and brilliant Sherlock found him, but this proved to be too much, and John stopped him with an annoyed raise of his hand, which was fortunate for Sherlock, because any longer and he might have found himself admitting much more than he wanted to.

               After the case at Baskerville was solved, and the two friends (so strange to think of them like that) were on their way back to London, John suddenly asked the cabbie to pull the car over. With a mix of guilt and dismay, he informed Sherlock that he’d just remembered that today was Harry’s birthday. Unenthusiastically he admitted that if he were to forget to wish her a happy birthday, it would cause far more problems than it was worth, and would Sherlock mind popping over to Harry’s flat with him for ‘no more than five minutes, I promise’. Still trying to make up for his thoughtlessness, Sherlock agreed, though he was no more looking forward to the meeting than John was.

               All in all, however, the visit was exceptionally brief (eight minutes and forty-seven seconds), made tolerable by the fact that Sherlock viewed it as yet another clue into John’s being that he could contemplate at a later date. Harry had been hospitable enough, offering them tea that the detective knew she didn’t have, and she knew John would never accept. She looked a bit like John, the same colour eyes and hair, though she was paler and thinner, most likely a result of her alcoholism, though she claimed she was currently in recovery. (Sherlock didn’t have the heart to dispute this fact in front of John, who did actually beam with pride when he heard that.) She also had the same affinity for ugly jumpers that John had, and her nondescript beige pullover could have been lifted straight from her brother’s closet. She listened attentively as John awkwardly rambled about having just come from an overnight trip, and ‘just wanting to stop by and say hello’, and graciously accepted his well wishes and fumbled apologies over showing up without a gift. She agreed to meet him for a dinner date to make up for it, that both she, John, and Sherlock knew no one would ever follow up on, and kissed her brother good-bye as he finally stood and told her they had to be off.

               She stopped Sherlock at the door, and stared up at him intently for a moment, her eyes searching his. They were precisely the same shape and colour as John’s, and for a moment the detective found himself unsettled. After some time she smiled, and told him she was happy for him and her brother, but that he should just take things as they come. _After all_ , she said with a small laugh, _he didn’t get the name ‘Three Continents Watson’ because he enjoys safari_. With that, she closed the door quietly, and Sherlock turned to follow John who was halfway out to the car park already.

~~~~~  
 _Oh, but you are in my blood, you’re my holy wine_  
 _You taste so bitter, bitter and so sweet_  
 _Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling_  
 _Still, I’d be on my feet_  
 _I would still be on my feet._

               The drive back to London after that was a quiet one. Sherlock was moodily contemplating Harry’s parting words, and John was moodily contemplating whether it really had been mouthwash he’d smelt on his sister’s breath when she’d kissed him. Neither man spoke until they pulled back up to 221B Baker Street, and after Sherlock paid the cabbie, they trudged inside. John immediately plopped himself down in front of the television, flipping from mindless show to mindless show, and Sherlock settled himself at his desk, and stealthily pulled a file from a drawer and began to write.

               He wrote and he wrote and he wrote, filling several sheets of paper. He wrote of coffee without sugar, pain flashing in hazel eyes, terrified breathing, Morse Code, ugly jumpers, family obligations, and then three continents.

               Three continents.

               Three continents.

               Three continents.

               _What deeds must a man have done to earn a nickname such as ‘Three Continents Watson’_? Sherlock wondered absentmindedly, doodling a map on the backside of one of his sheets of observations. He was no blushing virgin himself, but no one in their right mind would consider him an expert in the area of sexuality. In fact, he’d never really given it much thought after the first few attempts. The sensations were pleasant, surely, but nothing more than a distraction. He’d always viewed his body as transport for his mind and not much more. Pleasures of the flesh did not appeal to him, save for his occasional indulgence in cocaine, but even that was to stimulate his brain rather than his body, when the tedium of everyday life got to be too much to bear.

               He was just filling in the Canadian provinces on his map when he realised that the room was silent. John had switched off the telly. When he looked up, he was surprised to see that the doctor was standing at his shoulder, a most curious expression on his face. Gently, he pried the pages from Sherlock’s hands, straightened them once against the table, and began to read from the beginning.

_1\. Psychosomatic limp – gone. Obviously enjoys the threat of danger._

_2\. Highly defensive (though still an idiot), does not mind questioning authority. (Note: hide collection in a new location in case they come back)_

_3\. Possibly less of an idiot – knows how to work a cell phone GPS. Could be useful if brought along on a case._

_4\. Good shot. Clean, accurate, without remorse._

 

             The list went on to include things like:

_89\. Sings dreadfully in the shower with an unfortunate liking of Pearl Jam._

               Or:

               _142\. Uses bread crusts to sop up remaining stew. Disgusting habit. Perhaps from Army days?_

And

               _367\. Prefers pyjama bottoms to sets, most likely so shoulder is in no way immobilised. Psychological._

All the way down to:

               _10973\. ‘Three Continents Watson’ would most assuredly **not** have any interest in a borderline asexual sociopath. Enough is enough, Holmes. Case closed._

               John stared down at Sherlock for a long while before he cleared his throat, and in a hoarse voice asked ‘Wh-what is this?’

               Sherlock refused to meet his gaze, and tapped his pen rapidly against the side of his desk. ‘Case notes,’ he said quietly, after he felt he could ignore the question no longer. ‘A case of you.’

~~~~~  
               That night, John and Sherlock went to Angelo’s and sat at a booth with a candle. They enjoyed their free meal, complete with a bottle of the most bittersweet wine Angelo had to offer, and when they left, no one missed the fact that their fingers were intertwined, and the normally apathetic detective had a smile on his lips that no number of cases involving serial killers could create.


End file.
